


The Pianist and The Serpent

by Rokikurama



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Memory Loss, REALLY should read Atalan's Like a Sunless Garden first, Snakes, attempted exorcism, referenced character deaths but they didn't stick don't worry, so some violence with that but not to the point of graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 18:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama
Summary: Inspired by Atalan's "Like a Sunless Garden" from the Pray For Us, Icarus universe. Specifically by Atalan's author note asking for a fix-it for Vienna Crowley, because apparently all of us were sobbing. You should *really* read that first, or this will be rather confusing.It's London, 1824, the tail end of an influenza outbreak. A snake-shaped immortal entity and a dying human(?) Crowley meet in a Chinese herbalist's shop and set off to make some things right.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	The Pianist and The Serpent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atalan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Like A Sunless Garden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310283) by [Atalan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/pseuds/Atalan). 

_Limehouse District, London, 1824_

A man and a snake-shaped being stare at each other, utterly dumbfounded. Outside, the street bustles with activity and shouted Chinese as the crew of the East India Company’s Bridgewater returns home. But inside the cramped herbalist’s shop, nothing moves. Even the man’s tortured, bloody cough is quiet. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, glowing where they can catch what weak light makes it through dirty windows in a grimy city. The man draws his first satisfying breath in weeks, the dust swirls, and the moment breaks.

“Was zur Hölle bist du?”1

“Wer bist'n du!?”2

DEATH, who is never far away but has been following this man’s steps for some time, at least as long as his hacking cough has been staining his handkerchiefs even redder than his hair, giggles.

Despite appearances, this is a most auspicious beginning.

* * *

_Lancashire, England, 1665_

“Guys, guys, guysss, come on, we can talk about thissss!” Crowley wheedled, wincing as the hiss slid into his speech, but unfortunately no one was paying any attention whatsoever to what he said anymore. He wriggled his wrists in the chains and shackles securing him to the post for the umpteenth time. No give miraculously appeared in the iron, and he’d already dislocated his thumbs to help the process along with no luck. The black ichor dripping down onto the platform (what do you get when you combine blessed metal and a demon’s very chafed wrists? It isn’t treacle pudding) probably wasn’t doing his impression of a totally normal human, super not-possessed-by-a-demon-or-other-assorted-occult-creature any favors. Particularly when his feet burned, and he had to keep hopping around like some kind of demented jackrabbit. Who the fuck consecrated a bloody gallows?

“And lo! Ye heareth with thine own ears how the Demoniac speaks with the tongue of the Devil Snake! Stand witness to how The Devil has so ensnared this blighted soul!”

Well, apparently someone had been listening. Wahoo. Matters were rapidly devolving from the simply irritating to the seriously concerning. The last thing he recalled before waking up with a genuine craaaap-did-I-really-forget-to-miracle-myself-sober-Well-Crowley-really-you-only-have-yourself-to-blame-Oh-shut-it-Aziraphale hangover was winning the weekly drinking money off most of the regulars of the only pub in what was turning out to be not as godforsaken a backwater as he might’ve hoped. This little trip had turned out to be yet another wild goose chase and the angel was somehow still in the “Holy” Roman Empire. He deserved some cheering up, for Someone’s sake!

“Ye have heard tales of Loudon and the heathen French!” the priest cried, and the crowd booed their disapproval of all things French and thus, presumably, ungodly.

Should’ve paid more attention to the big wooden stick things the other gamblers had leaning up against their chairs. Crowley generally approved of Wrath and Envy (naturally, demon) but preferred to avoid such up close and personal involvement in the fallout. Especially since some blessed idiot must’ve taken his glasses off after they clobbered him from behind on his way out of the village and had a peek under the proverbial hood.

When Crowley first woke up to discover his predicament (notably sans wallet—again, while he was _generally_ all in favor of what he’d been trying to get people to call “mugging,”3

he didn’t at all approve of it happening to him) and heard the dulcet tones of the Latin mass, he’d initially been more annoyed than anything else. Crowley’d been there, done that with the whole exorcism thing. You couldn’t drive the demon out of a corporation when it was theirs to begin with. Usually all it took was a couple small miracles to convince the humans that they’d been successful, and then he’d leg it when the mob broke up. Or (twice, treasured memories) Aziraphale staged an intervention. But _usually_ the buggers hadn’t managed to bind him with iron shackles dipped in Holy Water and dragged him to a hanging post on consecrated ground while he was out of it. By the time an unhappily conscious Crowley could separate his wicked hangover from all of the other Ow, it was too late.

His feet screamed. His vision swam. The hands were the worst, though. Just dead weight at the end of his arms, his body ominously not even registering the pain there anymore. Crowley reached for his power, but it was just beyond his straining metaphysical fingertips. Tantalizingly close.

“Those so-called men of reason and enlightenment in Oxford and Londontown would tell you that their science has answers for you! That you should question the Church, question Almighty God!”

This wanker was really going for it. Most priests nowadays were just going through the motions or looking for social status where they could get it, second and third and fourth sons of middling consequence. But Crowley knew a fanatic when he saw one. You met enough in Hell.

“But behold, as THE LORD Our God works through me to drive the Demon Snake from this poor man’s soul! Stand witness to the power of the Almighty!”

The priest started chanting. Crowley had just enough time to recognize the words as _significantly_ more occult than the standard priestly exorcism script before his whole being was ringing like the bloody church bell. His legs seized and spasmed even more wildly; his eyes (for once) weren’t rolling of their own volition. The crowd gasped in appreciation as the priest kept shouting. Discorporation was starting to look more and more like a serious possibility. It hadn’t escaped Crowley that while accused witches and sorcerers usually burned, there was a noose waiting very close-by for when he inevitably survived this. _Idiot idiot idiot_, Crowley cursed himself. _If you hadn’t been so desperate to impress him, you would be safe in London right now. _He couldn’t just discorporate. Getting a new body was never a guarantee, and even if he didn’t have to beat some other demon away from his posting with the metaphorical stick, it’d take months, easy. Crowley didn’t have months. He’d made a promise to the angel. Said he would be there in London when Aziraphale returned. By now it had to be almost time, it’d been years of him (presumably) frowning and tutting at the Turkish army that they’d got the wrong imperial border. Discorporating like this, he couldn’t even leave Aziraphale a message. There wasn’t much in the way of tenderness or consideration that he really understood, being a demon and all that, but he could damn well keep his word. Hell always kept its word.

Energy built up around him, battering his corporation and his demonic soul both, shrieking and scratching as it found no cracks to slide into and open wide._ Think… of… something… Crowley… you always say you’re soooo clever, Crowley_. Crowley! Crowley now—had been Crawly. Crawly. Before. What if…

* * *

The Serpent exploded out into life, considerably startled. The first thing she noticed was that the ground fucking hurt. Rude. What, she was supposed to crawl on this? Crawl. Crawly… that was her? Her name? She’d be taking that up with management.

The second thing she noticed was that she had honest-to-Satan WINGS tucked away just waiting to become seriously less metaphysical, so bugger all that “crawling” thing for a lark. The humans screamed as her wings manifested, black and gorgeous, fire kindling between her teeth as she licked out to scent the air. That was a mistake, as the stampeding human mob had a predictable biological response to a great bloody dragon appearing in their midst. Crawly beat her wings desperately trying to gain height. An intelligent aerodynamic design, Crawly’s was not. Her list of complaints requiring immediate resolution was going to be long. Somehow she managed to get airborne and careened unsteadily off towards some big hills, vaguely guessing that distance would solve her The Floor Is Lava issue. None of the fleeing humans, nor the priest’s fallen corpse, not even the unconscious human hanging limply from the post by his shackled wrists interested her in the least.

* * *

The priest, however, despite being killed instantly in the explosion of energy that came with splitting things which should not be put asunder, was extremely interested in all of these things. Or at least his spirit was. He stood over his own corpse, head on a swivel between it, his erstwhile flock, and the stranger that Matthew and Thomas claimed showed signs of possession after losing all his money at cards and leaving the alehouse. They’d been a tad too emphatic about how they’d just had to knock him senseless, for his own good and that of the village, but as soon as he saw the man’s eyes, the priest couldn’t care less how the demoniac got to him.

“What in God’s Name—“

“NO.”

The priest’s spirit whirled around, clutching one hand to where his heart used to be and another to the rosary he still wore. DEATH stood just behind him, pale horse off sniffing with interest at the spirits of grass in the yard across the way.

“DEFINITELY NOT IN HER NAME.”

“Her?!” the priest’s spirit demanded shrilly, but DEATH put a skeletal hand on his shoulder and he was gone. DEATH studied the entity which had very recently been the demon Crowley, formerly known as Crawly, aka The Serpent of Eden. DEATH had come for the priest’s spirit, of course, but _this_. _This_ was New. It had been a very boring last few centuries for DEATH, with all the other horsemen gallivanting here and there about the planet playing with their food, as one might say. As DEATH said, anyway, since Famine wasn’t here to argue semantics.

DEATH approached Crowley’s corporation, which hadn’t moved since the serpent escaped, not even to breathe. DEATH considered it, looking at the body with innumerable celestial, occult, and simply Other senses across countless planes of existence.

“HUH.”

  1. “What the Hell are you?” In German, as very very very startled people tend to revert to familiar ground. [ ▲ ]
  2. "Who are you?” (imagine, if you will, a sizeable number of “the fuck?!!!!” sprinkled in with this sentence, which the author has omitted for the sake of brevity. Also in German, because Crawly expected this Odd ...being... to understand. [ ▲ ]
  3. because “mugging” is a hilarious word, okay? It sounds like a ceramic painting party got into bed with a quilting bee. And before you even start, Angel, trivializing crime is a Very Demonic Thing to do. [ ▲ ]

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the Icarus stories past Herein a Blossom Lies (I think) since my fix-it idea involved how the gentlemen got stuck in this mess to begin with; hope I'm not trespassing too much on the genuinely heart-rending glory that is Icarus-verse. Posting before I'm totally done because I really, really want to keep reading.


End file.
